An American Girl in London
by Me-gone
Summary: When a mysterious woman by the name of Mel comes to live in the vacant room of 221B Baker Street with abilities that match the brilliant detective's, Holmes and Watson discover they are living with more than just a young American girl.
1. An American Girl in London

"John!"

"What Sherlock?" John asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the newspaper while raising his voice per usual when speaking to him.

"I need them . . . now!" He yelled, searching the room by throwing papers around and moving furniture.

John sighed, picking up his tea from the coffee table and taking a sip. "We've been over this already." He spoke with a stern voice. "I'm not your enabler."

"And we have _been _over this, John, how my mind isn't as simplistic as yours. It's like an unstoppable train, running at the precise speed of a hundred and fifty miles per hour. If I don't get a fag soon I'll-"

"Or you'll what?"

"I'll resort to taking it out on the wall _Mrs. Hudson_," he said, imitating a prissy girl. "Is so keen on keeping in one piece."

"You're lucky you're in one piece," he mumbled.

"What was that?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing!"

"Not you!" Sherlock said, shooing him like a child, "The door."

John put the newspaper down, listening. The doorbell rang.

"A client?"

"No," Sherlock said. "A client rings but one time with a hesitant finger. _This_ is something far more interesting."

The doorbell came again, and this time with persistence.

"A new tenant," he verified.

"Oh, that must be the American girl," Mrs. Hudson seemed to sing from downstairs. "Come to fill the room!"

"American girl," John repeated with surprise. "What the bloody hell is an American doing in Baker Street?"

"You're right. The university is much too far to walk from here. A college student can't afford cab rides and a flat, not even on scholarship. Probably an exchange student, but even then the probability is slim. So either they're here for a transported job or they've come here to kill me."

"That's not funny," John said, shaking his head. "Do you honestly think a girl all the way from America has come here to kill you?"

"Calm down John, if someone really wanted to kill me they would have come up with a better plan than an American living in the same flat with two Englishmen."

John looked away from him to the doorway, listening intently as Mrs. Hudson unlocked padlock and greeted whoever was at the front door. Sherlock, with his hands pressed together at the tip of his nose, listened in as well.

"Come on in dear, we've been expecting you."

"We?" the girl questioned.

John's head perked up when he heard the girl's husky voice. To him it sounded very pretty. Sherlock rolled his eyes at him as he turned to stare out the window.

"Here, I'll take your bags for you."

"No, I can get it," she objected.

"Nonsense! Poor dear, you must be tired from your trip."

"Yes, thank you," she murmured.

They continued to listen as the two ascended the stairs. Mrs. Hudson stopped when she reached the living room.

"Boys," she called.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder while John's eyes were already there. Through focused eyes, Sherlock analyzed her. Eyes dark like a sewer rat, and minimally washed brown hair. White skin, slightly touched by the sun on her head and forearms arms. Worn jeans faded to a pale blue on the thighs. A long sleeved black shirt, new with noticeable deodorant stains on the sides with a black p-coat hanging on her shoulders. And a natural scowl on her brow that had to of appeared over time.

"This is Melita Brown. She's an American!"

Melita cracked a smile though the look on her face before she arrived had been soar and pestered. "Only by birth."

John stood, power walking over to where the two women stood. He reached out to shake her hand. Melita eyed it carefully a moment before she took it, a gesture he did not notice. But Sherlock, already calculating her body language, clothes and movements, saw it.

"John Watson," he said with a welcoming smile.

"He's a doctor!" Mrs. Hudson added excitingly.

Melita raised her eyebrows, seeming slightly impressed. "Very nice," she nodded in approval.

"Just John to friends."

She grinned, "I'm Mel to whoever cares."

All three chuckled except for Sherlock, who with an expressionless stare, glanced back at the window. His eyes staying fixed on the life moving outside the flat.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson called. "Don't be shy come say hello."

"No thank you."

"Sherlock," John almost growled.

"No, it's fine," Mel commented. "I should begin unpacking anyway."

"Yes, please do," Sherlock said, no emotion whatsoever in his voice.

Mel ignored him and hurried up the stairs.

"Really Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson protested. "You should learn to be nicer to your new neighbor."

"Yes, Sherlock. _Nicer_."

"You were willing to share one bed with Dr. Watson when he first came here."

John scrunched his eyebrows together, "No, we weren't." But Mrs. Hudson didn't hear him.

Sherlock ignored the both of them and continued to think, allowing his mind, for a fraction of a second, to think of _the woman_.

After Mrs. Hudson assisted Mel with bringing her luggage up to the empty flat, Mel used the small silver key to open the old creaky door and looked about the room. The wallpaper with the strange flowery pattern had been slowly ripped away over time. The floors, bare from the carpeting having been pulled out and scuffed. The fireplace, used but still in good working condition. This room had been abused and, perhaps, someone could have passed or was injured between these walls. But though it has its flaws, Mel was in no position to pass on a room she had so much in common with.

"Ooh," Mrs. Hudson breathed as she set her bag down. "It's quite a journey to walk up those stairs when you have your whole life in one bag."

"Yeah," Mel said, her smile fading like bad memory had erased it from her face. She shook her head vigorously, before turning back to Mrs. Hudson. "Thank you for your help and letting me have this room."

"Oh it's no problem dear. The room's been empty for a long time, never could find anyone to fill it. Anything else I can get for you? Keep in mind I'm not your housekeeper."

Mel thought for a moment, "Do you know where I can find a good carpenter?"

It was nearly sunset when Mel emerged from her new den. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson still resided in the main room of the flat: John at his computer, blogging, and Sherlock playing the violin next to the far window. When John heard Mel's footsteps echoing against the walls of the squeaky stairs, he looked up from his screen to greet her.

"Mel was it?"

She stopped short at the last step, walking in the doorway. She nodded, "John right?"

He smiled, "Off to explore London?"

"Actually I'm going to scrap the walls tomorrow and I'm going out to buy some paint. So if you hear any noise, I apologize in advance."

"That's quite alright. God knows he makes enough noise," he said gesturing to Sherlock standing behind him. The violin made a screeching sound as he brushed the bow against the strings before he stopped playing altogether.

"I don't play to make noise John, I play to think. And you-" he said, pointing the bow at Mel. "Just because you apologized in advance doesn't mean I'll excuse you."

"Do you have a problem with me?"

"I have a problem with anyone who disrupts my work in the present and or future, especially a Midwestern American girl."

"How do you know I'm from the Midwest?"

"You're an adolescent about to turn into the age of adulthood but by the look in your eyes and the way you hold yourself, you've had to grow up fast and have since known the meaning of independence. And by the manner you shook John's hand; you don't like to be touched without your permission. You're not a college student, but you are well educated by the stress your forehead holds. Accent isn't as thick as a typical New Yorker, Jersey girl or Californian, but by the way you end your sentences so I'd say Central America. Did I miss anything?"

Mel's eyes stayed fixed on his blank face, not amused by his descriptions. "Do you always judge people by the way you judge a book?"

"I don't judge, I just observe."

"Well then," she muttered. "Allow me to observe." Her face relaxed then, eyes becoming expressionless like a robot focusing as it analyzed.

"I know you're a younger sibling to a powerful man, maybe a politician but more likely a blackmailer. He's good at what he does, but like a typical younger offspring, you want to be better. But you're flashy, cocky, always striving to get the last word in. Like a broken pen in the pocket of a white shirt when you need to just let it soak in." She eyed him, looking from his bare feet and then back to his blue eyes. "Can't say too much about your wardrobe because there's not much to say. You dress the way you want to be perceived and treated: mysterious, dark and unreadable. And to answer your unborn question Mr. Holmes, yes, I use my senses too."

Without another word, Mel turned to walk down the squeaky steps, leaving Sherlock feeling surprise and looking stricken.

"Oh, I think I'm going to like her," John whispered as Sherlock shot him a glare.


	2. The Golden Vase

"I've searched this whole flat and still nothing! Not even the scent of tobacco is on your pillowcase."

"Sherlock we have-" John paused, processing his words as he turned around in his chair. "Wait did you say you smelled my pillowcase?"

"When one comes in procession of an item that doesn't belong to them, the first place they'd hide it is where they are the most vulnerable." Sherlock quickly changed the subject. "Read me the email."

"I can't believe you went into my-" he paused again. "How did you know I got an email?"

"Stop asking questions and read!"

John groaned, ignoring his rude urgency.

"Dear Mr. Holmes,

I am writing to you on behalf of President Hoyer of the Wittenberg museum. On January 12 we experienced a burglary from an unknown person of interest. Nothing was vandalized but one piece of important history was taken: The Golden Vase of Anubis. Whoever stole this item took precautions by blackening security cameras and bludgeoned a few of our officers. On behalf of President Hoyer, we would like to offer you £50,000 for your cowoperation." John paused once more. "Cooperation is spelled wrong."

"They wrote this in a hurry," Sherlock stated.

"Please consider our offer. Signed Officer Joseph Fawcett. They left a number and address."

"Yes," Sherlock said, pressing the tip of his fingers against the brim of his nose, thinking. "Should I verify our _cowoperation_?"

"No," he said. "The officer who wrote this is obviously in trouble with his employer. Why else would he resort to contacting us by email? He can't take a chance at being seen on our doorstep."

A knock came at the doorway and only John turned to see who it was while Sherlock continued to think, already knowing full well who it was.

"Excuse me," Mel asked politely, her voice sounding quiet like she was disturbing them. "Do either of you, by any chance, own a paint roller that I could borrow?"

"Um, yes." John shot up from the desk, banging his knee as he did, and sped down the stairs.

"John, don't let her use my equipment," Sherlock muttered.

"She's not going to damage it Sherlock," speaking like he knew that as a matter of fact. "If he doesn't want me to use it, I won't. I was just wondering so I don't have to waste money buying one."

"No, don't waste your money! She'll give it right back," John insisted, walking down the stairs. "He keeps the painting equipment in the basement."

Mel followed after him down the steps to the lower level which smelt like an old library book, and felt cold and sticky like nothing had breathed air in there for quite some time. John pulled the switch to see, searching around until he came across a box labeled:

Paint and Brushes DO NOT TOUCH!

"Here we are." He pulled out a small pocket knife and cut the tape on the box. While carefully moving tubed paint and small brushes around, he finally found the large paint roller and handed it to Mel.

"Thank you," she said. "I won't keep it for long."

"No," he said, suddenly out of breath. "Keep for as long as you like. It's not like he uses it." She nodded, holding the door open for him as he closed the box and shut the light off. "So, since you're not a college student what do you do?"

"Uh," She breathed, like she wasn't expecting him to ask.

"No, I'm sorry that's really none of my business. Forget I said anything."

"No, it's alright I'm just trying to think of a way to explain what I do." When the light bulb in her head went off she looked up at him, her stare unreadable. "I find people."

"You find people? So, what like a bounty hunter?"

"Not quite," she answered.

"You look for good people then?"

"Sometimes good, sometimes bad . . . sometimes dead."

"Dead?" he questioned, raising his eyebrows. She nodded.

"Yes. Why is that an issue?"

"Oh, no, it's just-" John protested, looking her in the eye. "Now I have three interesting people to live with."

The corner of Mel's mouth seemed to curve in amusement, but it quickly evaporated when she heard footsteps clanking down the stairs. Mel turned away when she saw the dark, curly haired man stop next to John.

"Asking her out already, well that makes six this mouth."

"What?" John said louder than intended, glancing at Mel's now turned back. He replied in a whisper, "No, it's not!" He signed then, his frustration level slowly declining. "Be nice."

"Oh, but I'm always nice," he sarcastically smirked. "Come on, we have an appointment with the officer." John's gaze shifted, confused.

"But we didn't reply to him."

Sherlock moved past him to open the front door, "I know."

Sherlock and John took a cab to the Wittenberg museum nearly ten miles away. John had heard of the museum before but had never been to it. When the two arrived, several police officers and cars were parked outside. Lestrade was standing outside talking with Anderson to which Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You called him?" Anderson asked in dismay.

"No he didn't, but hello to you too," Sherlock answered.

Lestrade sighed, "We have this under control."

"No you don't." Sherlock walked past them and into the museum. John shot Lestrade an apologetic looked as he followed him inside. The police were gathered around the area where the vase was taken from. Forensics were taking photographs as others were brushing for fingerprints.

"Two minutes," Lestrade yelled.

"One."

"Alright everyone back up, world's only consulting detective coming through!"

With his small magnifying case, Sherlock looked about the crime scene. "The glass which protected the vase has been untouched. The stand is perfectly intact. How did you get out," he asked to himself mainly. Without any gloves, Sherlock then proceeded to remove the glass from the stand as everyone around him gasped.

"He can't do that!" Anderson said.

"Shut up Anderson or you'll be an accomplice to letting guilty men run free."

"Men?" John questioned. "You mean there's more than one behind this?"

"In a manner of speaking." When he removed the glass case, Sherlock then picked up the stand revealing a crevice big enough for a man to fit in. "How else could this man have gotten out without being seen?"

"Brilliant," John said aloud.

Sherlock then handed the glass to one of the forensics, nearly dropping it. "Laterz!"

Later that night, Sherlock and John visited the local morgue for a different case. This one involved a man who had allegedly shot himself. But according to Sherlock: "The angle of which the gun was shot was at close range, but not close enough to the forehead to where he could have pulled the trigger himself. So unless our friend here has an arm ten feet in length we are looking at a homicide."

"But his fingerprints were on the handle," Molly commented.

"Of course they were. How else can you convince forensics of suicide when it never happened? Put the body away and remove the bullet tomorrow. The killer's fingerprints will be on it." With his easy blue eyes, he caught her like a catfish from a bay.

"O-Okay," she stuttered nervously, watching after him as he walked out the steel door. She wanted to ask him something else but he rushed out before she could say so. Molly then covered the body back up with the white sheet and put it away before leaving for the night.

As Sherlock ascended the stairs, he suddenly had the feeling something was wrong. "John?" he called out. Something was indeed wrong if John never answered. He approached the two way door to the lab with caution. Sherlock didn't see anyone at first, not right away even though the lights were on. But as he opened the door, he saw John tied up in a chair with his head drooping to the side. Sherlock gasped, but before he could make a move toward him, he felt something, like the butt of a gun, hit him on the back of the head.

Sherlock woke up to the sight of John sitting across from him, tied up like he had been when he first walked into the room. Only this time he was awake and alert. John sighed when he saw him wake up. "We're in quite a pickle here, Sherlock."

"I know. Are you alright?"

"Yeah," he nodded, his breathing slightly unsteady yet aware.

Sherlock looked about the room at the men who had captured them. There were four of them, not counting the two guards outside the door who had struck him. They were all wearing black ski masks; a detail shook his head at in disproval as if he would have worn something differently. One of the men spoke in French, eyeing Sherlock in a nasty manner and taping him on the chest with his gun.

"Speak English if you're going to threaten me and don't use the end of your gun as a finger. I expect nothing more from amateurs."

"Sherlock, don't! Smartass isn't something they're willing to tolerate."

"If it wasn't they would have shot us already. They want something that we have."

"Mr. Holmes," one of them spoke.

"Who's asking?" One of the men then proceeded to remove him face masks, as did everyone else.

"Gaston Armel. It seems you've been trying to locate us. Big mistake." They all began laughing in unison as Sherlock watched John's face growing anxious and uneasy. His own face remained unreadable, glancing back at Gaston.

"This may have been a mistake, but you have made several which cancels out the one I have made."

"And what mistakes would those be, Mr. Homes?" he mocked, pointing the end of the barrel at his face.

"You captured us in a building wired with fire emergency levers; the second is showing your faces to me, John, _and_ a third party."

"What third party?"

"And there, gentlemen, is your third mistake."

Outside the door came a wailing noise and some rustling, followed by the sound of boots clicking against the tiles. One of the men said something in French, to which Sherlock indicated meant 'go check it out.' As the guard began to open the door, the two way door was immediately shoved back in his face, knocking him out. The person behind it took hold of him, using him as a shield as they repossessed his gun. Sherlock smirked slightly when he saw it was Mel. The guards opened fire at her, missing and hitting the bulletproof vest on the man. Mel pushed him down as she dove behind the counter, crouching down on the floor. She ducked down to the space below the cabinet and shot at their ankles, taking out all of them but one. Gaston untied John and pressed the gun to his temple.

"Come out! Surrender or I'll paint Mr. Holmes face with his blood!" From behind the counter Mel made a sound, indicating she had dropped her weapon. She rose up from the counter with her hands up in surrender.

"Oh, no you got me," she said sarcastically.

Gaston chuckled, "No, I shot you." He then pointed the gun at her and pulled the trigger, but it only made a clicking sound. He fired again. Another click.

"For a country ranked ahead of us in math, you're not very good at keeping track of how many bullets you have left." Mel glanced at John then, "You were in the army right? Take him out."

John then proceeded to throw the arm away that was around his neck, and placed Gaston in a headlock. He squeezed his neck, not to kill, but to force him to pass out. When his arms went limp he then threw him to the floor. John then ran over and untied Sherlock with his pocket knife while Mel walked over to pull the fire alarm.

"Hurry and write a note for these guys," she said. The three of them managed to get out before the police and firefighters arrived, all wanting to avoid paperwork. Instead they took the back way out with Mel running ahead.

"Whoa!" John hollered. "Whoa hold on a second, where the bloody hell did all of that come from?"

"What? That? I thought it would have been obvious that a person who is good at hunting must know how to hunt."

"I don't conversant with sewer rats."

"Sherlock! She just saved our lives!" John yelled at the top of his lungs, but he ignored him.

"I'm a sewer rat, am I?"

"Yes, a glutton American who has come to London to use up and waste our resources and spread disease, and if John knows what's good for him he'll stick with dating English girls, far less STDs to catch. So maybe you should stick with migrating to wherever your infested parents have gone."

Mel's gaze shifted to menacing, suddenly finding herself contemplating actions far beyond her moral standing. "You may insult me, you may even dissect every last inch of me, but when you disgrace my parents that's where I draw the fucking line!"

"Oh, curse words so threatening," he teased. "You're five-foot seven with a skeletal frame and a weak ankle what damage can you possibly to me without the use of a semi-automatic weapon?"

Mel grinned, "For having such a gifted sense of observation, you really are blind."

With a microscopic twitch of her wrist, Sherlock suddenly began having trouble breathing. He collapsed to the ground, convulsing as saliva, snot and tears overflowed onto his face. As a concerned friend should, John frantically began to panic, gripping Sherlock's shoulders as he called out his name. Mel, a grin still painted on her pale face, pivoted on her weak heel and began to walk away.

"What did you do to him?" John yelled after her.

She waved at him over her shoulder, "He'll be fine in about two minutes. No need to call an ambulance. Oh and don't worry about the vase. I've already returned it." And when John blinked, she was gone.


	3. The Private Investigator

Sherlock awoke the next morning to find himself tucked into his bed fully clothed. The first word he shouted, rather than spoke, was John's name.

"John!" Sherlock yelled as he threw off the covers and ran out of his room.

John, who had been sitting in his regular armchair blogging, stood up. "What? What's wrong?"

Sherlock ran past him and up the stairs to the third floor, banging on the door of 221C.

"Sherlock, if you're looking for her she just walked out the door."

He seemed to fly down the steps when he heard him say that. "Where?" He shouted.

"To fetch a carpet, if you hurry you might be able to catch her. She said sorry by the way!"

Meanwhile outside, Mel stood on the sidewalk raising her arm up nervously. From where she was from, there were no taxis. One's transportation consisted of walking or driving yourself wherever you needed to go.

"Taxi!" she practically screamed and one finally pulled up. As she opened the door, Mel was immediately pushed into the cab. "Ah, what the hell?"

"567 Freeman Drive. Go!" Sherlock ordered the driver as he shut the door. Mel, now knowledgeable of his presence, scooted as far away from him as the cab would allow while keeping her eyes fixed on him.

"You said so yourself I disliked being touched, and yet here you are shoving me inside a cab taking me God knows where!"

"Congratulations," was all he said, staring at her with a half-smile.

"Congratulations on what?"

"Impressing me is not an easy thing to accomplish."

"Impress you," she repeated, confused. "What makes you think I that was my intention?"

"I'm sure it wasn't. But I must admit the drugs were especially a nice touch."

She stared at him a long moment, slowly digesting his words. Mel then scrunched her eyebrows together. "Wait a minute; you knew I was going to do that?"

"Of course," his baritone voice sounding dark.

"Why?" Her voice, on the other hand, sounded appalled. "I thought you said I was a rat?"

"My apologizes," he said sincerely. "I wanted to see what else you had hidden under your sleeve," he breathed. "No pun intended. I knew who you were the moment you walked into our flat. You don't slouch like a normal adolescent girl. Your posture speaks proper like you'd be hit with a yard stick if you didn't, though your ankle suggests you've been injured recently. You don't like direct contact from strangers because you're afraid your colleague may use those precious seconds to disarm or perhaps arm you with a tiny device intended for tracking or blowing you up. Your voice, however, needs work. Your American accent is clear and isn't ignorantly thick but your calm voice can either work to your benefit or used against you entirely. So like I said: I don't judge, I just observe."

She shook her head slowly, "You really need some help."

"You wouldn't be the first person to suggest that," he grinned at her before looking away.

Mel, feeling confused and still quite disgusted, gazed out the window as well as she watched all of the Londoners on the street pass by. The cab then drove by parliament to which Mel ogled at. It was a large building consisting of a linear, architectural stone with Big Ben at the front overlooking London with its four faces made of clocks. It was still quite hard for Mel to believe she was living in London with two men, one of whom came off as very unusual to her, but she couldn't judge, for Mel wasn't exactly normal either.

"How did you find out about me?"

"I overheard your conversation with John. You said 'you find people,' good, bad, dead, not far from where I stand."

"I'm not a detective," she stated, defensive.

"I never said you were, but your job does involve a bit of mystery to it: A young American woman who earns a living by working as a private investigator. Not too hard to figure out with the right mind. But what still puzzles me is as to why an American would journey so far from their Central American home and migrate to 221C Baker Street?"

Mel averted her eyes back to the window, not wanting to answer. Her hand moved to the lump in her pocket, a prized possession that she kept safe and very close.

"Ah, so there _is_ a reason behind your decision, of course there's always a reason, even if it's boredom. But by your reaction it's a rather intimate reason."

She glanced back at him; her brown eyes seeming dry like an empty bottle after it had been drunk.

"Am I wrong?"

"No," Mel finally said, but that was all she answered with before changing the subject. "Where are we going anyway?"

"You said you were looking for a new carpet for the flat. What better place to go than the Paper Moon?" Sherlock pointed to something outside the window. Mel followed his extended finger only to see a giant, glowing crescent moon that sat on top of a small building between two larger ones. When the car stopped, Sherlock paid the cabby before getting out of the car and walking all the way around to open her door for her.

"Come on," he urged her when she didn't get out right away.

She hesitated, suddenly unsure as to whether or not she should trust him. But Mel did what she does best: She took a chance.

"Alright."

Mel got out and followed him into the tiny shop, which to her came off as more of an antique mall than a carpet store. When they entered, Mel's eyes instantly caught the sight of several rugs hanging from the ceiling, consisting of a tiger and Captain Jack Sparrow. From the outside, the place seemed kind of strange to her, but the inside was very inviting.

"Anything carpet you find, no matter the price, I'll pay for. But choose wisely."

As they looked around, Mel couldn't help but like the variety of colors they had: turquoise blue to magenta purple. Any shade one could think of they had. Though other subjects continued to remain glued to her thoughts. She turned to Sherlock then.

"Why are you doing all of this? And don't lie to me, you said so yourself, there's always a reason behind every decision."

His face remained stationary, unmoving as if he was playing a game of chess. "I want you on my team."

"Your team? You and that Doctor work by yourselves."

"That's exactly what I'm referring to."

Mel sighed, glancing away a moment before turning back. "I have to ask: What's in it for me?"

Sherlock with glassy eyes moved closer to her face so she was only inches away. Mel felt uncomfortable as he closed the space between them, wanting to move away. But she knew he was testing her.

"Whenever paid, the price will be split three ways, flat paid for, a chance to improve your skills, add the excitement of uncertainty in your life, maybe witness some violent deaths, need I go on?"

Sherlock stayed where he was, waiting for an answer and he was only accepting one. Mel searched his baby blue eyes, attempting to find something she didn't like, but instead discovered something new about him and smiled. She held out her right hand.

"I accept," she whispered.

He backed off slightly, shaking her hand with a smirk.

"Welcome aboard, though fair warning if it should result, we're not responsible for your death."

"I figured as much," Mel said her eyes seeming to change as she looked around the store, ignoring the salesman who was trying to make eye contact with her. "So, shall I choose a white carpet for the time being?"

Sherlock scrunched his nose, staring at the twenty different shades of white on the board. "They're all so boring. A room needs a splash of color." Flipping through the boards of different patterns, he searched until his eyes stayed fixed on one in particular. "I think this one shall suffice."

Mel raised an eyebrow in question, "If you say so."

When they made it back to the flat, Mel and Sherlock unloaded the new carpet from the top of the cab all the way to 221C. Though Sherlock conned John into installing the alarming plum colored carpet into her room. After they were done, they walked down to the main room where Sherlock stood with his fingertips once again pressed against the brim of his nose as usual.

"I'm surprised we didn't run into any problems. Thank you," she said.

"And I'm surprised you got all of the mold out," John smiled. "By the way, how did you find out where the golden vase was?"

"When I walked down here to ask for a roller, I overheard you talk about an email from a concerned museum guard who was in danger of losing his job. The password for your computer wasn't too difficult to figure out: Single, white, middle aged male. Not one for many secrets."

John shot Sherlock a look, "Sounds awfully familiar."

"From there, I followed you to the museum where you found the cubbyhole beneath the vase. Only a specific person has the height and build of a four-foot nine person with the strength of an average man."

"A midget?" John pointed out.

"A _ginger_, midget to be exact."

"But there wasn't a midget with the group that captured us."

"Because she already had the police arrest him," Sherlock remarked. "But she returned the vase before they could get to it."

"Right," she said.

"Brilliant! But, how did they know to come after us?"

"I had to create a diversion so they wouldn't follow me. So I left your names," Mel said.

"Of course," Sherlock chuckled. "Very clever indeed."

"Wait so you put us both in danger?" John asked, exasperated.

"I had every intention of saving you, I swear. I'm sorry if you're upset."

"He'll get over it," Sherlock spoke, his voice changing to a mumble as he picked up his violin. "After all he'll have to since you'll be working with us from now on."

John's head snapped in Sherlock's direction, "What?"


End file.
